


Das Koscher Schlachten

by Snrub



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Binge Eating Disorder, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, I’m adding tags/characters as I go along to prevent spoilers, M/M, Non-Sexual Spanking, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Slurs, Verbal Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:22:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25116835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snrub/pseuds/Snrub
Summary: What if the characters from South Park grew up in the late 1920’s bavaria and other parts of the world before and during the second world war? That is what will be explored in this WWII AU.
Relationships: Kyle Broflovski/Eric Cartman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	1. Katzen und Ratten

**Author's Note:**

> So I might tweak (pun intended) some details with this fanfic here and there after I’ve posted the chapter(s) just fyi ʕʘ‿ʘʔ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kyle and Cartman fights, what else is new?

_January 8 1929_

* * *

Snow-covered boots hit the ground and the heavy breaths from one very fat boy could be heard throughout the schoolyard. 

“Then come and get it fatass!” the quicker boy yelled—laughing—mocking the other while being chased.

“I’m going to fucking _kill_ you!”

“Can’t kill what you can’t catch!” 

The january air was chilly, and the fat boy felt it penetrate deep into his lungs as he chased the other. It wasn’t fair—nothing was ever fair. His face scrunched up in dismay and anger when his adversary reached the top of the steps leading into the school, taunting him to follow. So that’s what he did, even though he was falling behind by quite a bit. 

The scenery changed from the bright and snow-speckled outside, to the dreary green and brown walls and carpet of Oberstdorf Volksschule. He followed the faster boy through the empty corridors of the school, and stopped hastily as he saw the other sneak into the lavatory. His insides churned as his anger now mixed with distress, not to mention the shortness of breath in his lungs and the ache starting to build in his legs. Even so he kept running, despite everything working against him; he ran. He swung the door to the lavatory open—it was too late. The other boy had thrown his party armpatch into the porcelain bowl and flushed. 

The fat boy was on him in an instant, swinging at him and landing that first blow square in the face—however he soon realised that he had little to no stamina left, and it wasn’t long before he found himself regretting initiating a fight in the first place. He staggered and fell backwards to the floor when the other, _taller_ , boy returned the sentiment; a closed fist that gracelessly collided with his nose. 

The room spun around and before he knew it he was looking up into the mossy green eyes of the boy above him, feeling the pair of legs that didn’t belong to him around his waist, and how they pinned him down. Before he even had time to attempt to push the other off, the punches had already started to rain down over his pudgy face.

“Time out---Time out, Kyle! Time out-” he was cut off by another blow to the head.

Kyle didn’t listen, instead he raised his fists once more to let go of his frustrations.

The fat boy attempted to go on the offense again, backing himself up on his elbows to get somewhat off the ground, aiming his dirty little fingernails to scratch at the other. He couldn’t tell if his hands had done any damage before the other boy had hit him again, this time in the stomach. The fat boy wheezed in pain, holding back the tears. He hoisted himself up again, grabbing at the other, grabbing for anything that might be damaged. He caught a fist full of hair—curly copper hair—and pulled. He pulled as hard as he could, he would be damned if he just let someone torture him relentlessly without consequence. 

The next blow was delivered in cold anger; hitting the fat boy in the face once again, making him let go of the hair, while simultaneously ripping some of it out in the process. 

” _Ahhh!_ Son of a bitch!” Kyle screamed in pain. 

Kyle went for the other boy’s own bangs in retaliation, pulling them upwards at the base of the roots in a rough motion, something that proved to be too much for the boy on the floor.

“Okay, okay I give! I give up!” the other boy pleaded through tears and a bloody nose. 

After a while Kyle stopped hitting him, instead only holding the fat boy’s wrists in a tight grip with his own hands to keep him down. He breathed heavily as he felt the adrenaline rush slowly seeping out of him. He stared down at the fat boy with contempt; he was pale and plump and had abnormal mismatched eyes, somewhat reminding him of a fat—possibly pregnant—stray cat that he’d seen once in an alleyway. The only thing that looked decent on the boy was his hair; light brown, straight and usually combed to the side in a neat fashion—though at the moment it looked like a mess due to the recent brawl. 

“Now let go of me already you filthy jew rat!” the fat kid screeched on top of his lungs. 

“Shut the hell up! Don’t call me that, and stop belittling my people! You catpiss-smelling wannabe brownshirt!” 

Footsteps could be heard on the other side of the door, and before any of the two boys had a chance to continue their exchange, the door had opened. The boys looked up at the man—it was their teacher—he was wrinkly, grey haired, balding and wore ugly spectacles. 

“Eric Cartman! What is all this yelling about?! You schweinhunds are half an hour late for class!” the man demanded.

“Teacher! he’s bullying me!” Cartman squealed; not entirely unlike a pig. 

“I’m not-!” Kyle started, only to be interrupted seconds later.

“Yes! Yes he is! He flushed my armpatch down the water closet!” Cartman cried with as much exaggeration as he could. 

“But he started it!” Kyle yelled, feeling his anger rise again.

“Enough! I don’t care who started or did what, you two just landed yourselves in detention this afternoon. Now hurry and get up from the floor, playtime is over,” their teacher stated with tired indifference and walked out the door.

Cartman pushed the other boy to get up off of the floor, “get away from me already!” 

Kyle didn’t respond, he only got up on his feet and left the lavatory as their teacher had moments before. Cartman looked over at the lavatory bowl, and how it had clogged after what had been done to it, there was no turning back now. He tried to plug his bleeding nose with some paper towels but to no avail, as he walked to the classroom he could feel the blood running down his brand new jacket. Well, at least it was red.

* * *

Eric Cartman walked into the classroom a couple minutes after Kyle had arrived. They both looked roughed up, but there was no doubt he had suffered the worst blows—the most noticeable being his bloody nose and cracked lip. Cartman shot a glance at his enemy before sitting down at his desk. Said enemy paid him no notice and instead kept whispering to his other classmate—presumably about the incident that had just occurred. 

Cartman continued to glare at him. Disgusting kike, how could he lose to someone that far beneath him? He then smiled when he noticed that he wasn’t the only one bleeding, he had successfully managed to scratch the other boy above the eyebrow. His hair looked very messed up too, the red curls had tangled themselves every which way, looking like he had just woken up from a particularly bad dream. 

He considered these victories and felt a bit better about himself, then noticed that Kyle finally was staring back at him—annoyed—and rightfully so. The fat boy merely shrugged, then glanced at the clock on the wall, ordinarly school would be over after this class… he really didn’t look forward to the next couple of hours.

The sun stood high in the sky when the last class ended, Cartman would know, because he had been staring out of the window for the past twenty minutes. The sunlight shone down on the ground and up on the rooftops, making the snow glisten and the icicles melt. Cartman eyed his classmates as they left for the day, well most of them anyway, the boy with the red hair and faded orange jacket—like himself—stayed put.


	2. Das Nachsitzen

When the last of their classmates had left and closed the door behind them, the hell also known as detention had begun. The four walls of the classroom felt more and more like a cage closing in on them as the sun outside sunk lower by the minute in the horizon. 

Cartman and Kyle were the only ones there—with the exception of their teacher. The other kids were for the most part more tactful not to get caught with whatever mischief they’d get into—something the chubby troublemaker and the short tempered redhead had yet to master.

Cartman stared at his book and the blank paper in front of him; math. They had been through the subject matter—division—in class several times this week, but as usual he hadn’t payed attention at all. 

”This is so weak!” Cartman complained, ”just let us go home already, it’s not like you want to be stuck here either Herr Garrison.”

His teacher walked over to where Cartman was sitting and love tapped him in the back of the neck. 

“Shut up! It’s called detention for a reason. Now do your work unless you want the same every afternoon for a week!”

The sting of the blow made him cry out in pain.

Cartman—like any other boy in his class—was painfully aware of the risks defying his teacher had, especially in detention, even so, he couldn’t stop himself from mouthing off.

”I’m going to the lavatory,” their teacher said, taking his copy of ’Das Kapital’ with him, ”no talking!” He almost slammed the door shut behind him as he left, then the clicking sound of a keychain could be heard as they were locked inside. 

”Can you believe that guy?!” Cartman yelled.

”Yes, actually,” Kyle said from across the room, ”it’s a perfectly reasonable response when he has to deal with _you_.”

”That asshole locked us in here! What if I need to take a shit?!” 

”What do you mean? It’s flowing freely from your mouth right now.” 

Cartman walked over to where Kyle was sitting, ignoring his remark and leaning over the desk. 

”Alright jew, here’s the deal, we both know it’s your fault we got into a fight in the first place, not to mention that we ended up in here. Therefore you owe me one, give me your answers so I can copy them.” 

”No way fatass! Even if what you just said wasn’t a load of horseshit, you really think I would help you now? Just leave me alone so I can finish this and go home already.”

”You destroyed my armpatch, my _property_ ,” Cartman said, putting extra emphasis on the last syllable of the word. ”You owe me one!”

”Yeah, an armpatch representing an ideology that literally wants me dead-” 

Cartman cut him off, ”oh like that’s any different from you wearing the jew star that wants _me_ dead!” 

Kyle raised his voice in irritation, ”first of all when have I ever worn the star of David?” he wanted to hit him, ”secondly, since when did jewish people ever want anyone dead?”

”Oh I don’t know Kyle, since Jesus maybe?!”

”Ugh! Fine! What do I care? But don’t come crying when Herr Garrison notices that you’re obviously cheating.”

”Thanks Kyle~!” Cartman said in a voice laced with insincere gratitude.

Minutes passed; ten, fifteen, thirty, yet there was no sign of their teacher. 

For wanting to copy his classmate’s answers so badly, Cartman sure took his sweet time with it, taking breaks every so often to doodle squiggles and stick figures killing each other on the side of his paper.

The sun had set completely when Kyle wrote down the last answer to the last question, the dim light of the cheap lamps in the ceiling colored the room dirt-brown.

”Why don’t you just do your schoolwork?” Kyle asked finally, breaking the silence.

”Why don’t you just live as a respectable member of society, Kyle? There are so many questions in this world that needs answering, but so few answers.”

”I am-” Kyle started, then remembered how little he actually wanted to have this conversation. He rolled his eyes, ”forget it.”

The door of the classroom once again rattled with the sounds of a key, this time it was being unlocked. The boys looked over at the door as it finally opened.

”About time!” Cartman said loudly as the man emerged. 

Their teacher walked over to where they now were sitting together, looking down on them as if they had committed a war crime. 

”Oh? Are you boys talking instead of doing your work?” he asked.

”No… I don’t believe so, no,” Cartman responded.

It was pretty irresponsible of their teacher to just leave them, really, probably even negligence, that said; Kyle was in no mood to start an argument with the cranky old man. 

Suddenly Cartman walked across the room and towards the door; opening it.

”Where do you think you’re going, Herr Cartman?” the man asked.

”I just have to pee, _Jesus_ , I’ll be right back.”

”Fine! But next time you _ask_ , you got it?” 

”Yeah yeah, whatever,” Cartman responded as he disappeared from the classroom.

”Herr Garrison, I also need to use the toilet,” Kyle said.

”Don’t be stupid! Of course I won’t let you out at the the same time as Herr Cartman, just look at how recess went.”

”You have point but,” Kyle paused for a bit, ”you did just leave us here alone for over an hour.”

”Yes I did, because I trusted that _you_ out of all of my students would do as I say and sit quietly at your desk.” 

Kyle didn’t know what to say to that.

”Can I please go home now,” Kyle said after an awkward pause.

”As long as you did what were supposed to during detention and learned your lesson, you don’t want to end up in here again do you?”

Kyle shook his head.

”And of course, a respectable young man such as yourself wouldn’t ever stoop to cheating or such?”

” _I’m_ not the cheater,” he said bitterly. 

”Good boy.” 

The door handle yanked twice before the fat boy once again appeared in the room.

”Good you’re back Eric, now let me see your worksheets, I’m sure both of you want to go home to your families, _tonight,_ and me aswell to,” he cleared his throat, ”the wife.”

”Obviously,” Cartman said, and handed over both of the worksheets—with as much fake confidence he could possibly muster—to his teacher. 

”Yes this was very fun indeed,” Cartman said then stretched, ”but now that we’re done exchanging pleasantries, I really need to be on my way.”

Herr Garrison looked the papers over and hummed in assessment. 

”Herr Broflovski may leave, you on the other hand _Herr Cartman,_ I need to have a word with you.”

”What, why?” Cartman said hastily, trying to sound collected. 

Kyle gave Cartman a tired, fleeting look, as if to say, ’I told you so’, then packed his books into his backpack and headed to the school lavatory for one last quick stop. 

When he went out into the darkness, silent flakes of snow had started to fall. Outside he was reminded of his face, and how it still hurt when the cold air washed over him and the first soft, icy stars of winter landed on his skin. He _did not_ look forward to what his family was going to say.


	3. Schrei des Schweins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An instance where Cartman should have chosen his words more wisely. TW: explicit child abuse.

”Herr Cartman,” Garrison said after the other boy had left the classroom, ”why do you treat school like a joke?”

”Why are you asking me like you’d care? Because I know you don’t. It’s all fucking bullshit, we both know it, holding me hostage here won’t change that,” Cartman said with indifference and looked away.

”How dare you speak to me like that? I am your teacher, have some respect!”

”Yeah I never really got that concept I guess? I thought respect was something that had to be earned, not given out as a handout to every filthy beggar who demands it,” Cartman said and shrugged.

”Be quiet you insolent brat! You know very well what I mean! It’s damn obvious that you’ve been raised without a father the way you speak to your elders!”

”And it’s obvious that you’ve been raised with a stick up your ass, Herr Garrison, are we done here?”

”Have you forgotten why you are here, Eric?!” Garrison yelled, ”firstly you pick fights with the other children, like you, with your fat disgusting lump of a body would have any chance against the other boys, and then this!” Garrison held up the paper that Cartman had given him a few minutes before.

The words hurt him. He didn’t show it, he wasn’t even fully aware of it, but they cut deep. ”What about it?” Cartman said, looking as unbothered as before.

”Are you completely retarded, Eric? Or do you perhaps mistake me for the retarded one? You just couldn’t sit at your own desk, quietly, like I told you! You shamelessly copied the answers from Kyle.”

Cartman wanted to shoot himself for ever thinking this had been a good idea. Of course that scheming jew rat Kyle gave up the answers way too easily, how hadn’t he seen this coming?

”And where exactly is the proof for this baseless accusation, Herr Garrison?”

”You didn’t write how you came to these calculations, you only wrote down the answers and made some ugly unrelated scribbles! You should be thanking me for even humouring you with an answer, I don’t need to prove anything to you, you little liar.”

”Much rather be a liar than commie-socialist scum like you,” Cartman said and threw his teacher’s copy of Das Kapital on the creaking floorboards of the classroom, breaking the back of the book.

Garrison grabbed Cartman by the hair and dragged him over to the teacher’s desk, then shoved him face first into the rough oak wood and piles of books stacked on top of it.

”Waaah! What the hell?!” Cartman cried out in pain as he felt something on his head, it was a hand, a hand that now shoved his body forward and face down on the desk, forcing his head into a sideways turned position. Strands of hair got in his eyes and he tried to move but he was stuck to the surface. Blood was once again seeping from his already damaged nostrils, like the gods had decided that it hadn’t bled enough from the first time that day.

”You are the most disrespectful little dummkopf I’ve ever met and it amazes me how you try to push your luck over and over again when you’re in reality entirely powerless! Are you just too daft to realise that? You are trash, a filthy fat bloodsucking leech on society and you should thank god that you’re still allowed to breathe!”

”Am I though…? You’re hurting my throat,” Cartman wheezed, feeling the tears well up in his eyes.

Garrison only pressed his head down harder in response, wrapping his free hand around Cartman’s neck to demonstrate how it felt to really lose your breathing privileges.

”Ack! Herr Garrison- I can’t- hhh,” Cartman tried to speak, only to discover—and to his utmost horror—that his entire vocabulary had been replaced with laboured wheezing sounds.

”What was that, Herr Cartman? I can’t understand you, didn’t your mother teach you not to mumble? Or was she too busy with,” Garrison paused while the muffled cries of the boy could be heard throughout the almost empty room, ”work?”

Cartman started thrashing, clawing at the desk with hands and nails, doing everything in his power to break free, his eyes were stinging with tears—he was crying so much that everything in front of him had turned blurry.

The hand loosened on his neck and Cartman could feel the sweet air rushing into his lungs again, he gasped, then coughed, his neck was pulsating with pain.

”I…” he started, then interrupted himself when salty tears started to stream down his cheeks and he lost his ability to speak once again—although this time for different reasons. He was in all honesty terrified.

”Use your words, Herr Cartman, or we might be stuck here doing, as your mother might call it; late work.”

”I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he said through sniffles, ”I’ll do whatever you want just let go of me...he...he!” He wasn’t above begging like this per say—dire situations called for dire solutions—and it wasn’t like he actually meant it anyway, but it still sucked.

”Stop crying for god’s sake! You pathetic waste of space,” Garrison said in disgust.

Cartman emitted a low whining sound as he tried to stifle the sniffles and hiccups his wailing had caused.

”Now, it’s good that we finally agree on something, you will do ’whatever I want’, you will pay for wasting my time and insulting me!”

”Okay…” Cartman responded, doing everything in his power not give in and cry, ”I have five reichsmark in my piggybank at home.” It was all the money he had but it seemed he’d overplayed his cards this time.

”Oh I’m afraid that isn’t nearly enough, Herr Cartman,” Garrison said in a voice dripping with sadistic amusement.

”I swear, I’m telling the truth, it’s all I have!” he responded in desperation.

”I don’t believe you. Once a liar, always a liar,” the man responded.

”I’m not fucking lying!” Cartman said before he could stop himself.

He earned another smack in the back on the neck for that one.

”Yes you are. All you do is lie, even now, ironic as it may be, you’re lying about being sorry and when the problem doesn’t disappear right away, you revert right back to your old ways and, say, curse at your teacher, for example. You’re a bad apple Eric, you’re rotten, through and through.”

”What do you want from me?” Cartman pleaded, distressed and confused.

”Alright, I’m feeling generous tonight, I’ll let you off the hook, you just have to obey orders until I say you can go.”

Cartman swallowed, he knew he didn’t have a choice in the matter. He just wanted get through this in one piece.

”Okay…” he said reluctantly.

The hand on Cartman’s head let go and he was finally free to move again. He stood up and rubbed his eyes and nose; he was a bloody mess.

”Ah-ah, I didn’t say you could get up just because I let go of your head, Herr Cartman. Lean over the the desk again, I’m not going to ask twice.”

Cartman wanted to protest, ideally he wanted to fight back. But he couldn’t even win in a fight against a subhuman jew his own age, some part of him hated himself for it. He leaned half-heartedly over the designated piece of furniture.

“Open the belt, and pull down your pants.”

”What? No, oh god don’t,” Cartman did not like the direction this was going, not one bit.

”Do what I say, I’m counting every act of defiance as one hit with the ruler from this point on.”

”Good to know…” Cartman mumbled under his breath, yet did nothing to fulfill the man’s request.

”That’s one, Herr Cartman.”

”What?! I didn’t even do anything!”

”That’s two, raising your voice like that,” he clicked his tongue, ”do you understand the position you’re in? I’ll give you five seconds to do what I told you or else that counts as five.”

”Hey, wait…! I need more than five sec-” Cartman hastily turned around to look at the other, then started to fumble with his belt, but it was too late. The time had already run out.

His teacher’s rough hands grabbed his trousers with the intention of just dragging them off altogether, but the belt kept them in place at first, it was only when he pulled with all his force, painfully dragging them across hips and buttocks, that they finally came off and landed on the floor around the boy’s ankles.

”Backtalk instead of doing what you’re told? Another one.”

Panic was starting to settle in for Cartman, he inhaled once; twice, four times, as his breathing was getting faster and the primal ’fight or flight’ part of his brain lit up. He stood up and turned around to face his teacher, then instantly regretted this adrenaline fueled decision.

”Oh?” Garrison said, twisted amusement lingering in his voice, ”standing up again without permission? That’s another one!” Then shoved the fat boy right back down to where he’d been, now holding him in place with a hand on his back.

The ruler hit the boy first on the thigh, and the second blow landed straight across his buttocks. Cartman felt tears welling up in the corner of his eyes and he started to cry again, loudly.

“Stop whining, you only have yourself to blame, you little pig!”

The pain seared through his flesh as he screamed with every agonising blow. After the fifth time or so the blows became increasingly forceful, the intensity of the ruler swishing through the air to collide with his bare skin kept escalating.

After a moment the man took a break and spoke, ”I counted nine before, but why not make it an even ten, hm?”

Cartman didn’t respond verbally, he only let out more muffled cries from where his head was buried in his arms.

”I’ll take that as a yes. Only three left now, Herr Cartman, why don’t you count them with me? Bad as you are at math you do know how to count, don’t you? Repeat after me; acht, neun and zehn!”

”Acht...” Cartman said through sobs, sobs that soon turned into screams after the ruler had hit his rear again.

”Good, good,” the man said and patted his head in one uncharacteristic act of sympathy—or perhaps it wasn’t sympathy at all, but another sadistic attempt at humiliating the boy even further, ”keep going.”

”N… neun...” he stuttered, and like before, the long brown rectangle made him scream out in pain, ”zehn!”

For the last blow Garrison switched the ruler for the boy’s belt, aiming so that instead the metal buckle would hit in the collision of object and bare skin. The man grabbed the other by the hair and pulled him down, pressing his face against the hard wood of the desk once again, this time so roughly that it surely would leave a bruise, then struck his exposed bottom one final time, leaving it a searing red that also, surely, would bruise. 

Cartman’s throat was raw from screaming, buttocks were raw from the beating, and eyes were red from the crying, even so he couldn’t help but feeling relieved; it was finally over.

”You may pull up your trousers and go home now, Eric. Same time same place tomorrow, we will need to _talk_ again about how you were cheating.”

Cartman didn’t say anything, he got his things as quickly as he could, then put on his jacket and hat, walking out of the door, never looking back. Face and body hurt as he walked through the dimly lit corridors of the school. He realised that he had no idea what time it was; the pitch-black January sky on the other side of the windows did nothing else than tell him that it was late. It felt like he had been here forever, and that that feeling wouldn’t want to leave anytime soon. He gazed up at the big timepiece hanging right above the front gate before walking out of the school, it was hard to make out what the little pointer of the clock was saying but he was sure it was something-past-nine.


	4. Tanzbären und Kartoffel Kugel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys go home and eat after a very long day in school.

Kyle pushed the door carefully as he tried to sneak into the house unnoticed—best case scenario would mean that he’d be able to clean up at least a little before anyone saw him like this. The house still smelled of cooking but it was too dark downstairs to assume that anyone was having dinner at this hour. 

”’Kyle!” a shrill yet familiar voice yelled from atop of the stairs, the lights from upstairs casting a long shadow in front of the short figure.

”Ike!” Kyle said in a loud whisper through gritted teeth, ”shhh!”

Ike ran down the stairs with a smile on his face, ”where have you been?” he asked, wearing that curious expression only a four-year-old could. He looked up at Kyle, now noticing that his big brother had hurt himself, ”did you fall on your face?”

”Something like that,” Kyle said, ”I need to go to the bathr-”

”Kyle!” yet another familiar voice called, this time stern instead of shrill, and this time coming from the kitchen.

”Look mom, Kyle’s home now!” Ike pointed at his brother, smiling proudly.

”Yes bubbie I can see that, go upstairs back to bed now so that I can _talk_ with him.”

”But I wanna talk too! I’m not sleepy at all!”

”Now Ike, no buts,” their mother said, unyielding.

Kyle watched as his little brother disappeared up the staircase, his tiny feet were the sand and the steps metaphorically the hourglass, measuring the seconds of peace and tranquility that would inevitably run out once the child had closed the door of his bedroom behind him. 

”Kyle what happened to you?” his mother asked, touching his face, ”is that blood?” 

“Yes but,” he turned his head, ”it’s not a big deal.”

”Did you fight with that child in your class again? That still doesn’t explain why you came home this late young man! I was really starting to worry! A few hours more and I would have called the police.”

Kyle glanced at the clock on the wall, ”Mom, it’s only _eight_ O’clock.”

”Yes, and you are only nine! You know very well you have to come home and ask before going outside to play with your friends. Now where have you been all day?”

”I…” Kyle bit his lip and averted his eyes, he desperately wanted to lie about what had happened today, but after thinking it over, he decided against it—if he didn’t tell her, his teacher surely would—and he knew from experience that lying often just made things worse in the end, ”I was sent to detention…”

”What what what?!” his mother yelled, ”how on earth did that happen?”

”I got into a fight… like you said before.”

“Oh for goodness sake Kyle, how many times have I told you to just ignore it if someone teases you?” 

“A lot of times but... _he_ started it! Twice! First he talked about how much better Germany is going to be when all the jewish people are dead, and how he is going to be part of this political group who wants to kill us! Parading that stupid membership badge around and acting like I’m less than human in front of everyone else! Cartman deserved every last one of those punches! I hope I broke his fucking nose, well the way it was bleeding I think-” Kyle stopped himself, remembering that this was his _mother_ he was talking to and how hot rage had carried him away once again.

“Kyle! What are you saying?!” his mother yelled in shock.

“I-” he looked away, “he punched me first! It was self defense!”

She took a deep breath, “that is no excuse to be violent, and it is absolutely no reason to curse! Just wait until your father comes home from München on friday and then we will talk about this! The rest of the week you walk _straight_ home after school’s over, and it doesn’t matter what they say! No fighting! Understood?”

”Yes…” Kyle mumbled, looking down at his boots, he knew that between the lines, ending up in detention again was out of the question.

”Good,” his mother replied, ”now go take a bath, I will heat up your dinner in the meantime.”

* * *

When Cartman at last unlocked and yanked the stubborn door to his home open, he was not met with what he had subconsciously hoped for—a warm meal and the fire started in the fireplace, and of course one of his mother’s tight hugs. Instead the cottage was only a couple degrees warmer than what was swirling about outside; pitch black and seemed as empty as when he had left for school that morning.

He dropped his backpack unceremoniously on the hallway floor and took off his shoes, still keeping his coat and light blue and yellow knit-hat on. He walked from the entrance to the living room, turning on the lights. His cat laid on top of a bunch of blankets on the sofa, looking as fat and content as ever, Cartman grimaced at the sight.

The boy walked to the kitchen to make some hot chocolate—realistically, he didn’t want to do anything but eat and sleep, but he was so cold that he forced himself to do it. He poured milk, water, cocoa powder, then added ten cubes of sugar into a saucepan, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon as it heated up. 

The chocolate was sweet and comforting as it touched his lips and he could care less that he had wasted almost all the sugar they had at home to make it. He sat down in one of the kitchen chairs—it hurt at first, then after the first initial seconds of stinging pain, the worst of it had subsided. He put the mug down on the kitchen table when he was done and walked into the living room to start a fire in the fireplace. 

The damper creaked as he pulled it downwards to open it, there wasn’t a lot of wood left in the box where they kept it, about three logs of decent size and the rest mere sticks in varying sizes. Cartman grabbed the crate with the wood and sticks and dumped all of its contents into the heatbox. 

Tearing off the newspaper’s pages, crunching them into little balls and throwing them into the mixture was almost fun—though short lived—as lighting the damn thing was near impossible it seemed. As soon as he had lit one of the newspaper-balls, put it down and waited for the flames to spread, it died. He tried this over and over again until he wanted to scream in frustration. The cat on the sofa had woken up because of the noise below and meowed softly as it approached the boy, stroking itself on his backside where he was sitting.

”Go away you retarded fucking cat!” he yelled and hit the animal that had broken his concentration across the snout. The cat scurried away, jumping up on the windowsill to be left alone; lying down as it waved its tail, emitting a low growl.

Cartman had tried around fifteen matches to light the fire by this point and then it suddenly hit him; he had forgotten about the tinder. He looked around where the crate stood, where did they keep the tinder again? Whenever his mother actually was at home she was the one to light the fireplace, though lately he had found himself to be left home alone more and more. He searched underneath the drawer and found the smaller box containing the birch shavings and dried grass, with this the flames finally caught on. 

With the fire started, the boy returned to the kitchen again to finally have something to eat, when he looked over at the refrigerator door he noticed an oh-so-familiar note hanging there, he knew it was from his mother. 

”My sweet little honey muffin, Mommy has to work late tonight again. I hope you can forgive me. There’s meatloaf in the refrigerator and sweets in the cabinet! Love you a lot,

Kisses, Mommy” 

Cartman crumpled up the small piece of paper into a little ball that he would later throw in the fire, ’loved him?’ Yeah right! He wondered why he’d even bothered with reading the note in the first place.

* * *

The hallway went dark when the large, red haired woman had turned off the lights and returned to the kitchen. Kyle removed his jacket and boots and left his backpack in the hallway, admittedly, he was pretty hungry, but he didn’t feel like bathing—despite everything that had happened. He followed his mother into the kitchen, leaning on the doorframe, ”do I have to? Can’t I just wash my face instead?”

”Yes you _have to_ bubbie,” she replied as she took out the baking dish—filled with what looked like some kind of gratin—from the refrigerator and preheated the oven, ”and don’t forget to change into clean pyjamas, you are headed straight to bed after dinner.”

”Can I at least listen to the radio while I eat then?” Listening to the radio was something he had been waiting for all day to do, and that want had only increased by the hour as the day’s events had played out in front of him.

His mother couldn’t help but take pity on him the way he looked right then; exhaustion and defeat painted all over his face—not to mention the literal bruises ”okay Kyle, but you are eating in the kitchen, remember to put the radio back in the living room when you’re done.”

Kyle nodded and headed upstairs, getting his pyjamas from the wardrobe in his room, then walking to the bathroom to turn on the tap of the tub. His face looked messier than he had thought when he noticed his reflection in the mirror; the wound above his eyebrow seemed to have left bloodstains everywhere. 

The water felt pleasant when he actually got into the tub—he felt as though he could fall asleep right there. After ten minutes of almost falling asleep Kyle noticed how dirty the water had gotten and stood up to grab his mother’s expensive Schwarzkopf shampoo, pouring a bit in his hand then rubbing it into his hair. After washing it he got out of the tub and dried himself off, then changed into his pyjamas. He looked at himself in the mirror again, he almost looked normal except for the faint bruises on his nose and the gash above his eyebrow. He covered it with a bandaid and headed downstairs again.

* * *

The piece of ground beef (mixed with vegetable bits and starch) transformed into a cold sludge in his mouth as Cartman swallowed; it tasted very decadent. It had at last become decently warm in the house, _or at the very least_ in the living room. The boy had finally removed his outerwear and snuggled up on the sofa among the heap of blankets and his food, of course. The cat was still watching him wearily from the windowsill, looking like a grey shadow against the pitch black darkness that was the outside and served as a backdrop. 

He chewed with underlying aggression as he ate the meatloaf, slowly but surely it made him feel better though—food was rarely disappointing —and that was the bottomline. The cat eyed him as he ate, and he gave the animal an intense death stare, daring it to try anything that would jeopardize him consuming every last bit that was left on his plate. 

The static voices that emerged from the small box on the drawer side table was the only thing that kept the silence away, that and the sound of his own chewing, _”...and that’s that regarding the news for the evening, next we have our host herr Wenzel Eichenwald with the weather…”_ Cartman had a sip of his full fat milk as he listened to the radio halfheartedly—he wasn’t particularly interested in the content or topics it provided, in all honesty the voices just made him feel less alone.

 _”...on the morrow the temperature will fluctuate between minus eight and minus five degrees celsius then stay at a consistent minus three degrees celcius during the day, this with a moderate chance of snowfall and a cloudy evening,”_ he could care less about what weather it would be tomorrow, he considered skipping school all together and just stay in bed, ” _the coldest temperature of the twenty four hour period stays at minus eleven degrees celsius…”_

As he washed down the last mouthful with the rest of the milk, Cartman had successfully devoured the meatloaf in its entirety, right out of the tin. The tin, fork and and now empty glass descended to the floor next to the sofa—the ceramic container thudding softly against the carpet. He sighed and let the contentment of consuming the nourishment that food brought envelop him, then yawned when the growing drowsiness not-so-subtly snuck up on him. The feast was far from over though, he had saved the best for last; _the candy_. His mother had gotten him a lot today—really, it was the only thing she was good for—two packages of Haribo Tanzbären and a chocolate bar. 

The cat finally jumped down from the windowsill and walked slowly towards the center of the room (where both the soft cushions of the sofa and the fire in the fireplace resided). It seemed to have calmed down from before as it stretched and then pitter-pattered over to the dishes on the floor, sniffing then licking the inside of the tin for any leftovers as well as the empty glass of milk.

This didn’t bother Cartman at all, he was done with his food and his bloody cat could lick the dirty dishes all it wanted. He popped a handful of gummy bears into his mouth and chewed; the taste, the texture, it could only be described as pure bliss. After finishing about half of the package of bears he felt sickeningly full, Cartman leaned back and felt how his stomach stretched and the sudden nausea creeping up on him, it was a battle of time, he crammed another fistfull of yellow and purple bears into his face and chewed as the dopamin continued to flood his already hampered with adolescent brain. 

After one package of tanzbären he felt incredibly sick to his stomach, and he convinced himself the chocolate would cancel out the overly sweet pig fat confectionery with its rich character. It was good—he was filled to the brim—but it was good. He ate the chocolate gradually, nibbling on it whenever the nausea had dropped just a little smidgen.

Soft paws touched his legs as the cat had jumped up on the sofa next to him, this time he did nothing to chase it away. 

Soon he felt defeated, he knew that whatever he’d try to force down at this point, would soon find its way back up—just as well, this meant he’d at least have some snacks for school tomorrow. He threw the wrappers and trash from the candy, as well as the second package of tanzbären on the floor. As he lay on his side—almost fully submerged in blankets and a pillow beneath his head—he felt how his body was pulsating, he was incredibly sated. There was also the throbbing pain around his thighs and buttocks—the reason why he was lying on his side—but the dopamine from the meat and candy outweighed the pain by far.

The voices from the radio slowly became more and more incomprehensible as he started to drift off, letting the noise drown out his thoughts until he ultimately passed out next to herr Kätzchen. 

* * *

Kyle’s mother was knitting when he entered the kitchen—this time with the radio in his arms. He plugged it in and turned the button until a radio channel came through; it was playing classical music.

”Shit,” Kyle reacted and turned the button some more to find another channel, he had wanted to listen to the news about the world or things happening around the country, anything that told him about what lay beyond the little town he lived in.

”Kyle, watch your language! Also there’s nothing wrong with the music channel, I think it sounds nice. Now come sit down and eat before your food gets cold.”

”Okay sorry, just give me a second,” he said hastily, barely noticing what she had said—he figured the snowstorm outside might have something to do with the bad reception—finally a man’s voice came through; it had to be one of the news channels. 

He sat down at the table, relieved that he had found the channel relatively quickly, then looked at the meal in front of him; it was his mother’s homemade kartoffel kugel, with a side of vegetables and sauerkraut, as well as a big glass of milk. Potato pudding and vegetables wasn’t really his favorite but he was hungry enough to not care at the moment—with the first bite he noticed there was gribenes in the pudding, a welcome surprise—he tried to chew quietly and ignore the clicking of his mother’s needles as he concentrated on the voice in the radio. 

_”As of january sixth the Kingdom of Serbs, Croats and Slovenes has suspended its constitution and is now declared by King Alexander the first to have become a dictatorship…”_

’Dictatorship?’ Kyle thought as he drank his milk, he had never heard the word before, ”mom, what does dictatorship mean?” he asked when he had put down the glass again.

”Oh, a dictatorship is when one ruler or a small group of leaders have all the power within a country or a state, such a leader is called a ’dictator’,” she replied, matter-of-factly, ”haven’t you learned about this in school yet?”

”No I don’t think so,” Kyle answered as he chewed, finishing the rest of the kugel and the milk, leaving most of the vegetables. 

”Don’t talk with food in your mouth, and finish your vegetables,” his mother said without looking up.

Reluctantly, Kyle had two more pieces of asparagus, _“and the new prime minister of the state, Petar Živković, was appointed by the King… wh… w_ _...ed... a.... ne... ...in... of... his ... … a…_ _… ...”_ static ensued; soon the only sound escaping the radio was pure white noise. The snowstorm had only escalated since he had gotten home, and it raged on outside of the windows.

His mother got up from her chair and turned off the radio, “that was probably for the best, your bedtime is now anyway. Don’t worry about the radio, I’ll put it back for you.”

Kyle was staring up into the ceiling as he lay in bed, the damp hair on his head tucked away neatly under his ushanka. His mother entered the room to give him a glass of water that she left on the bedside table, ”lights out bubbie, and don’t sleep with your hat on,” she leaned over as if to remove it.

”Why does it matter?” he asked earnestly, holding onto it.

”You have to let your hair breathe Kyle.”

”But I’m cold…”

”I will light another fire downstairs,” she reassured him and removed his hat gently to put it back with the other outerwear downstairs. His red curls—free at last—had expanded after the wash. ”It looks ugly,” he muttered quietly.

”Heavens no, it will be perfectly cute again tomorrow after you brush it, and in any case your bed doesn’t care at all what you look like,” she said, laughing slightly as she turned off the lamp on his bedside table, ”goodnight.” Kyle disagreed with his mother on that fundamentally, he never liked how his hair looked and would rather have it tucked under something—like his favorite hat—at all times.

”Mom,” he said hastily as she stepped into the doorframe. 

”Yes?” she answered patiently.

’Could we drop this whole thing and not tell dad, please? You’re in a better mood now right? Can we just go back to everything being fine like before today happened? I promise I won’t do it again...’ something like that is what he wanted to say, but he couldn’t seem to find the right words to say it, ”nevermind nothing, goodnight.”


	5. Wiederholen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back from the dead with some new 𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒷𝒶𝑔𝑒 content (◡‿◡✿)

_January 9 1929_

* * *

The first hours of school had passed, it was around lunchtime and the snow kept falling like it had all morning. The fat boy in the red jacket sat on one of the swings, wearing an incredibly tired expression. He was eating an apfelstrudel—the only thing he had bothered to bring for lunch today. It was a strange feeling, one he seldom experienced; he felt nauseous and hungry at the same time. Therefore this sweet treat was about all he could stomach at the moment. 

He watched the other children as they laughed and played; he wanted to kill them all. _They should all just disappear from the face of the earth, they deserve suffering until they cease to be, and then never to exist ever again._ Cartman inadvertedly stared at his archenemy within his peripheral vision as he took another bite of his strudel, he was the worst of them; always wearing that stupid russian hat and playing football with the other boys, he was not only a jew but a bully and a demon and, and… and he was walking towards him? Just how long had he been staring at him? Shit. Cartman looked away, with any luck the other would keep walking and leave him be.

”…Cartman?” the boy said, holding the round ball in his hands. 

A chubby face covered in bruises looked over at the other with angry eyes, ”...what do _you_ want?”

”I don’t want to fight with you anymore.”

”And I want you to die. Therefore to get your wish, _kindly_ , fuck off. This is your last fucking chance, you slimy subhuman hosenscheisser,” Cartman replied as he took another bite of his sweet bread.

”Hey, I’m trying to be reasonable here, just stop talking shit and then we won’t have a problem.”

”No. No, it’s not _’we’_ it’s ’you’, you have a problem. You _are_ a problem. Your existence is _problematic_ ,” Cartman said and consumed the last bite of apfelstrudel, ”why don’t you and all the other hebes go die, and then _I_ won’t have a problem? That sounds much better to me.”

Don’t hit him, _do not hit him_ ... Kyle’s irritation was quickly turning into anger, why did this asshole have to be so difficult? ”Listen,” he said through gritted teeth and his very last drop of patience, ” _I’m sorry,_ ok?” 

”Apology not accepted, frankly, you can shove it up your ass.”

The ball hit the ground with a loud thud, bouncing before rolling away, ”Could you fucking stop it?! The other guys wanted you to join playing football with us because we're one short, but you’d rather just sit here without any friends right? Or do you just want an excuse not to be active you fat fuck?” 

”Okay way to change the topic and then put words in my mouth, typical… a bit _too typical,_ even by your kinds' standards, isn’t it Kyle?” 

”Shut the hell up!” Kyle yelled at him, face flushing red in anger.

”Why don’t you make me? Oh wait you can’t, can you? Because you were _so_ sorry, right?” Cartman said, smiling.

”No I’m not! I take it back! You’re lucky I can’t risk getting detention again!”

”What’s wrong? Did your mommy and daddy get mad at you? And you went and apologised like a good boy?”

”No! I- fuck you! At least I have a dad!”

”Wouldn’t want one if he was a _kike,_ " Cartman said and shrugged.

Before the mitten clad fist even had time to collide with Cartman’s mouth, the bell rang. Lunch break was over. 

* * *

Silent reading—a subject Cartman prefered—for all the wrong reasons. His desk was placed in the very back of the classroom; this made it fairly easy to get away with sleeping in class, though in contrast, more difficult to be seen or heard—the very probable reason as to why he had been placed there to begin with. 

He stared up into the ceiling, sleeping was more or less impossible right now. His mind kept wandering to what had happened the day before, when the thoughts came he could feel the rage, fear and humiliation build up within him. _Fuck, fuck, fuck. Why did I come back here? Mom wasn’t even home this morning, I could have easily stayed home today! I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know! I can’t let them win! Go home! Go home! Shut up! He is going to hit you again today you know. You absolute moron why did you come to school today? Shut up, shut up!_

”Read your goddamned book, herr Cartman,” Garrison yelled from his desk.

Cartman was slow to respond, ”I am,” he replied, directing his gaze from the ceiling to stare directly into the man’s grey eyes—this was personal, the crime was so miniscule, he wasn’t even sleeping or bothering anyone. 

”You're staring into space like a retard, that's all I’m seeing.”

The other children in the classroom were either staring at him or their teacher at this point, losing this battle in front of them it would be bad; if they saw him as any weaker he’d surely be everyone’s target. 

”Funny, I didn’t realise you could see, being over one hundred years old and all, I thought the glasses only were for show or something,” he half-shouted across the classroom, ”by the way, can you hear this or are you deaf too?!”

”Eric, do you want another hour in detention?”

”Oh I thought you were going to keep me there until I’m as old as you! Again, I truly didn’t realise that it was even a possibility for me to get another fucking hour in detention!” Some of the other children laughed at that—a minor success.

”That’s it! Get out and go sit in the corridor!”

”Fine!” Cartman gathered his things and left the classroom. A lot of the other kids were whispering and laughing, not Kyle though; he was once again eyeing the pages of his book like nothing had happened. 

The fat boy closed the door behind him and sat down on the little bench against the wall in the hallway. _I should just leave, fuck this. Where would you go then dumbass, home? Because your home life is so perfect, right? You gonna go home and cry about it to your stuffed animals? Shut up, shut up, shut up! Being at home is a lot better than this slavery-torture! Are you really going to leave without getting revenge? What are you some kind of üntermensch? No! Shut the fuck up! I’m seriously just let me think shut up, shut up, shut up!_

His headache was getting so bad he decided to walk to the nearest sink in the lavatory to drink some water.

_This isn’t my fault goddamnit! It’s all because of the jews and the socialists and the communists and The British and everyone else that made us lose the war! School would work out perfectly for me if it wasn’t for them. I wouldn’t even have to go to this crappy school, I would go to a school somewhere in Berlin with the right nationalist values. Because of people like Kyle and Herr Garrison and my shitty mom I don’t have anything! I don’t deserve this! It’s so unfair! I hate, I hate them! I hate them so much. It’s not fair! Kill them, kill them, kill them. I have to kill them._

He sat down at the bench outside of the classroom again when he came back from the bathroom. He would have to come up with a way to make it look like accidents.

It had been forever. He had done nothing but sit on this goddamned wooden bench for what felt like an eternity. Cartman looked over at the clock on the wall; it had been an hour at least. He eyed the other kids going in and out the classroom for the ten minute breaks between classes. Most of them went outside to get some air and nobody paid any major notice to him; merely glancing over to where he was sitting at best. 

His teacher hadn’t told him to come back yet—or anything else for that matter. It was just as well, planning the man’s inevitable demise in his little notebook made him preoccupied enough to manage the compulsive screaming within his head. _Poison? No, that’s too obvious, unless… hm, I’ll put that in the ‘maybe’ category. Automobile accident? That would be intricate…_ _Maybe if I-_

”Hey Eric,” a voice suddenly called from outside of his own head.

Cartman looked up at the short, blonde boy standing in front of him, then closed his notebook, ”What do you want Butters? Don’t you see I’m busy?”

”What? You are? But you’ve been sitting here since-”

”Yes I know! Did you want something?”

”Yeah, Herr Garrison told me to tell you that now that school’s over you should come back into the classroom!”

Cartman glanced over at the clock again, it was true; the school day was over, well, for the other children at least.

”Hehe I thought it was pretty funny what you said about him before,” Butters said, smiling, ”but he looked to be awfully mad even after you went out… anyway, I’ll see ya’ tomorrow Eric!”

* * *

It was cloudy outside when he opened the door to the classroom and the light from the windows flooded in—the corridor’s only lightsource was the dim light bulbs in the ceiling—though the sun had just started to descend behind the grey clouds, making the horizon greyish blue and darker by the hour. 

”Close the door behind you, Eric,” the man said as he entered.

The door clicked shut and he shot a quick glance at his teacher before sitting down; not at his own desk but at one of the desks in the very front of the class. The man—to his surprise—didn’t seem to mind.

”You were quiet this morning, what an improvement,” his teacher said, walking over to look down upon him, ”shame you ruined that after the lunch break.”

Cartman said nothing; he’d be damned if he fucked this up again.

”I think our last meeting was a step in the right direction when it comes to your behavioural problems. Those damned progressives who think giving brats like you the old rod now and again is morally reprehensible,” the old man scoffed, ”weaklings, who in their right mind would let a kid walk all over them?”

Was this an opening? The fat boy figured it might be his only chance, ”yes I can now see the error in my ways, Herr Garrison. You have truly fixed my problems and all, and I’m really, sincerely sorry for calling you old and ugly before. It’s almost like we don’t have to talk about this anymore, like we both could just… I don’t know, go home...?” 

”Didn’t I tell you last time that I know when you’re just saying something to get your way?”

”No I-”

”You what? You know that you’re here because you lied and cheated, remember? You are going to sit here and do math for at least an hour is that understood?”

”But I… I don’t know how to.”

”Then you should have paid attention in class. You have an hour. If you complete it you can leave early, if not, I’m afraid we’ll have to have a heart-to-heart again,” the man said, putting down the same worksheet as the boy had cheated his way through the day before in front of him.

”Wait! Aren’t you going to explain it to me at least?” 

“Oh fine! But you better pay attention then.”

As soon as his teacher started explaining Cartman’s mind checked out, it was so, incredibly, _boring._ He nodded as the man spoke, _this was never going to work,_ he was doomed; toast, simply put. 

“Now try to use that useless thing you have on your shoulders and think on your own for once.”

Thirty minutes passed. Trying to think with this kind of headache was unbearable; trying to understand what the page said was nothing short of impossible. Cartman laid his head in his arms on the table, he was only going to rest a little; _just for a minute._

It was pitch-black outside when he woke up again. The boy looked around the room feeling utterly displaced before coming to his senses, looking over at the clock it read to be around five in the afternoon. He noticed that the pounding in his head had subsided, it wasn’t much but, he’d sure as hell take it.

”Ah, you’re awake? No-no, go on, sleep some more, and would you like something to eat or drink maybe? I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable,” his teacher said looking up from his desk, every word articulated in cold anger.

”I know you’re mad…" the boy started, "but... I’m actually really hungry,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

”Oh for Christ’s sake! You are completely hopeless Eric! A lost cause! Your mother ought to send you to military school, I swear when I was young we didn't have it as easy as you! You had to work back then, times were hard, not to mention the war that followed. Not like you, you're nine years old and as plump like a fattened pig before Christmas, _you're spoiled rotten_. Come up here to my desk, now!” the man yelled. 

”...but-”

”Now!”

The boy rose, taking reluctant steps towards the desk and the man standing there. A thousand ants had filled his head and limbs, tiny white particles that made everything go numb. Small fingers grabbed the left side of his chest, was his heart still there? And if so was it beating? Was he breathing? Could he breathe? At last he had become one with his surroundings, really; he had only been a collection of brushstrokes in a painting all along. A horrible, horrible, gruesome painting that no one would remember.


End file.
